Chapter 5: The Quarterback’s Room

As soon as I opened the door, a blast of cold air made me shiver. The A/C was set way too low, the kind of chill that bites at your skin even in the middle of summer.

The room was a mess, water everywhere. Someone had knocked over a bottle, or maybe dumped it out on purpose—puddles spread across the hardwood floor.

Following the sound of running water, I looked over. The bathroom door was cracked open, steam curling out, but the source was right there in front of me.

The always rebellious, cool quarterback was now pitifully sitting on the floor, leaning against the couch. He looked nothing like the confident jock who strutted down the hallways at school.

He was pouring ice water over his head. His t-shirt was tossed aside. The muscles in his arms stood out, goosebumps prickling his skin in the cold air.

He was only wearing a pair of gray sweatpants. They hung low on his hips, a stark contrast to the chaos around him.

Tyler hung his head. His jet-black short hair was wet, plastered to his face, half covering his eyes. He looked up, blinking, his gaze unfocused.

Water droplets slid down his sharp jawline, dripping onto his pants. One drop, two drops, spreading a dark patch. The room smelled of sweat and cold water, the sharp tang of desperation in the air.

Just looking at him made my mouth go dry. I felt awkward, out of place, but I couldn’t look away.

The guy’s long, well-defined fingers squeezed the plastic water bottle until it creaked. He gritted his teeth, jaw set, trying to keep himself together.

Tyler tilted his head back, and when no more water came out, he actually stuck his tongue inside the bottle to lick it. His desperation was almost painful to watch, his need so raw it made me shudder.

The bright red tip of his tongue circled inside the bottle, then disappeared behind his full lips. The image burned itself into my mind, impossible to erase.

The Tyler in my memory had red hair and earrings, his whole presence screaming arrogance and rebellion. Now, that arrogant face was still strikingly handsome.

But his flushed skin and heavy, ragged breathing betrayed his abnormal state. His chest rose and fell, fast and uneven.

He was a bit slow to react, only now noticing someone had entered. Without even looking up, he snapped at me:

"Who let you in? Get out."

But when he turned and saw it was me, the words "don’t touch me" died on his lips. For a split second, confusion flickered across his face.

He staggered, trying to hide in the fridge. He lurched forward, then slid back down to the floor, his legs giving out under him.

But his legs gave out and he slumped to the floor. The thud was dull, the sound of defeat.

I grabbed a bottle of ice water, unscrewed it, and handed it to him. "Tyler, where’s your phone? I’ll call a doctor for you."

He tilted his head back and gulped down several mouthfuls, water running down his lips and neck. I watched the liquid trace a path down his collarbone, pooling at the waistband of his sweats.

Then, dizzy, he started fumbling in his sweatpants pocket for his phone. His hands shook, his movements uncoordinated.

I saw his pocket bulging, as if there was a phone inside. But after a long time, he still couldn’t find the pocket. His fingers tangled with the fabric, frustration etched across his face.

He looked up at me, dazed. His eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide.

His red lips trembled, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying. His voice was a whisper, barely audible over the hum of the A/C.

I thought he was just too clumsy. So I pulled his hand away and reached in myself.

Oh god, please let that be a phone. Please. My hand brushed something definitely not plastic, and my face went nuclear.

Before I could scream, Tyler was already panting heavily by my ear. His hot breath brushed my ear, making me instinctively turn my head to avoid the tickle—

Just in time to meet Tyler’s flushed eyes. His gaze was locked on mine, desperate and pleading.

"I... I’ll go get someone for you."

I hurried to get up, but he pressed me down. His grip was surprisingly strong, even in his weakened state.

His hand, through the fabric, pressed against mine. Another unbearable gasp escaped him. The air between us felt charged, electric.

Maybe the stimulation brought him a moment of clarity, because his hoarse voice blurted out:

"Rachel."

I stared in shock at the dazed Tyler. A little surprised. My name sounded different coming from him—softer, vulnerable.

So he’d been calling my name all along. Even in this state, he could still recognize me. Some part of him still knew who I was.

But then why did Jason get it wrong in my previous life? Why did he mistake me for someone else?

Or did Jason just see me as someone he could toy with at will? The thought twisted in my stomach, ugly and persistent.

The more I thought about it, the angrier I became. I clenched my fists, fighting the urge to yell.

So I stepped forward, bent down, and lifted Tyler’s chin. Looking straight at him. His skin was hot beneath my fingers.

"Say it again. Who am I?"

As soon as my hand touched him, I felt burning heat. My breath caught in my throat, the air thick with unspoken questions.

When I tried to pull away, Tyler grabbed my hand with both of his, rubbing his cheek against it. His gaze slid from my lips to my eyes, until our eyes met. For a moment, the world faded away—the party, the pain, the past. There was only the two of us, and the question hanging in the air: Who am I, really?

His grip tightened. “Don’t leave.” And for the first time, I wondered if saving him might mean saving myself.